


overwhelming exception

by theslap (bigspoonnoya)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Humor, First Dates, Ghost Hunting, M/M, Paranormal, Post-Canon, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Unresolved Romantic Tension, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 09:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigspoonnoya/pseuds/theslap
Summary: Hank and Connor's latest argument cluminates in an overnight ghost hunt. The ghosts may or may not be real; the feelings certainly are.





	overwhelming exception

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote a canon-verse detroit fic???? incredible. anything could happen, folks

The argument begins, like many of their arguments, with Hank trying to explain a fallacy of human nature to his clueless android partner.

“Fear reactions exist in animals as a survival measure,” says Connor, LED circling blue. “To seek out a fight-or-flight response from a non-threatening situation seems unnecessary. Unless you’re undergoing combat training.”

“What can I say.” Hank leans over the breakroom table, stirring his coffee. “People love being scared shitless.”

“So you seek out the experience of being frightened?”

“Not _me_ specifically, but people. Haunted houses and scary movies, you know. You get an endorphin rush and afterwards you get to go home and sleep soundly.”

Connor is leaning against the counter of the breakroom kitchnette, hand folded in front of him, wearing his little _does not compute_ frown. Hank can’t tell if it’s an acutal frown or if he’s projecting expressions onto Connor’s blank face to make talking to him more platable. Probably not, he thinks, but he has some critical feedback for whoever designed Connor’s microexpressions. They could’ve taught him more than blinking and tiny lip twitches and… pouting.

“So,” says Connor thoughtfully. “You have to be tricked into feeling genuine fear, which produces an endorphin rush, even though you understand that you’re perfectly safe?”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

“Exercise also produces endorphins in humans. Why not simply take up running? Wouldn’t that be more efficient?”

Hank solemnly shakes his head. “This might be tough for you to understand because of your perfect plastic body, but… running is terrible.”

He watches Connor’s LED spin. He doesn’t know why the kid still keeps that thing on—Hank wouldn’t want everyone to know how hard he’s thinking when he has to do the math for a tip, and so on—but it’s convenient for Hank keeping up with Connor’s thoughts.

“You said you don’t engage in this fear-seeking behavior,” says Connor. “Why is that?”

Hank sits back in his chair. He shrugs. “It’s disrespectful to real ghosts.”

Connor’s LED spins yellow. Hank has to sip his coffee to keep from laughing. “Lieutenant,” says Connor, slowly, the politeness programming he follows audibly whirring (or whatever programming does, Hank doesn’t know). “What do you mean by ‘real ghosts’?”

“I mean, ghosts. You know. Disembodied spirits doomed to wander the mortal plane. Casper and Slimer and them.”

Connor’s LED flashes red briefly, then back to yellow. “Do you believe in ghosts, Lieutenant?”

Hank pulls back in mock surprise. “What’s there to believe in? We got evidence that they’re real.”

Connor goes red again, and this time he stays there, trying to figure out how it is that his partner of two months believes in the occult. It’s good stuff, good enough that Hank manages to keep a straight face, lest Connor catch on.

Connor shifts his position against the counter, almost like he’s uncomfortable. Hank didn’t know he could get uncomfortable—one of those post-Revolution patches they’re rolling out, maybe, but it seems like a strange thing to patch in. “Scientific evidence doesn’t support the existence of life after death.” His LED goes back to blue. Now that he’s googled _are ghosts real_ and downloaded all the results in .056 seconds, he’s feeling cocky. Hank intends to knock him down a peg or two.

He doesn’t understand why that’s something he feels the need to do, lately. It’s an itch in a spot he can’t scratch. Hank gets these urges to—needle Connor, to mess with him, ruffle his proverbial feathers. He doesn’t think he dislikes Connor, the way he did when they first met, so why would he want to bully him? He doesn’t get whatever his id is trying to accomplish.

But it’s satisfying to see Connor’s little light blink red, and he’s going to keep doing it until he’s exhausted the potential for amusement. Or until somebody stops him. 

Hank takes a sip of coffee and smacks his lips. “Doesn’t disprove it, either.”

“I would say that the amount of evidence all but disproves—”

“But it doesn’t actually disprove it.” Hank looks at Connor and lets himself smile, finally, now that he’ll seem more crazy than suspicious. “I know they’re real because I’ve seen one.”

“You’ve seen a ghost,” Connor says flatly.

“Yup!”

“Where?”

Oh, fuck. “Uh.” Hank didn’t think this lie through. “Right here.”

“Right here.” Connor glances around. “In the employee break room at the Detroit Police Department?”

“Not in the breakroom, but in the department, yeah. Sure.”

“Where in the department? And what did you see?” Connor fires off these questions. He’s quick enough about it he might be trying to catch Hank in a lie, or maybe it’s his detective brain working double time to diagnose his partner’s issues.

Either way, Hank’s going to keep going until Connor has the guts, plastic or fleshy, to call him on it. “The evidence room.” That’s a good lie, right? A ghost in a room full of bloodstained clothes and murder weapons? “I saw… an apparition. In old timey clothes.” Fuck. That doesn’t make sense. “Got all cold and tingly. You know, your usual haunting stuff.”

Connor’s eyebrows pinch together slightly. That’s a real expression, not imagined, Hank is sure of it. “This building was constructed within the last ten years. Why would an apparition from the historical past be here?”

“I don’t know. I’m no expert.” Hank takes another sip of coffee. “But this building was build on the site of the old department. It’s still got history.”

Connor’s brows stay pinched. His LED cycles yellow again, and he pushes himself off the counter, squaring his shoulders. “Your union-mandated break ends in one and a half minutes, Lieutenant. We should return to our desks shortly.”

“First of all, that’s _our_ union-mandated break now that the department actually employs you,” says Hank. Connor returns to a calm blue. “Secondly, you can go on back. I’m gonna finish my coffee, all right?”

Connor gives him a short nod and leaves the breakroom at his uncanny version of a brisk walk. It’s gotten more natural since he embraced deviancy, but not all the way normal. Maybe he’ll get there in a few more months.

Hank returns from his break late, like he always does, and he expects Connor to be waiting by their desks to chide him.

But Connor isn’t at the desks, or anywhere in the bullpen. Hank briefly considers going to look for him, but he’s an android, not a pet. Hank’s seen firsthand that Connor can take care of himself.

He gets back to work, or tries to. He used to like having an empty desk across from him—an empty desk doesn’t bother anybody—but now it’s… strange. More distracting than having Connor sitting there, which is saying something.

Tina arrives with paperwork to rescue him from his thoughts. Or, that’s what he hoped. He’s halfway through signing a report when she asks, “Where’s your plastic buddy?”

“Don’t know.” He glances up and Tina is smirking. “I told him the department is haunted and he wandered off,” Hank admits.

“I thought you two were getting along?”

“We are.” The paperwork tablet glitches and Hank smacks it against the desk. “Just a little—ribbing between friends—”

“As long as he knows that.” Hank shoots her a skeptical glance, and she adds, “I feel kind of sorry for the guy. If he’s even a guy. But Reed’s pissed he’s a permanent fixture. I think he’s going to bully him until he leaves, and that’s the worst way to go.”

“Is that so?” Hank returns the tablet to Tina. “Reed’s a shithead. Connor and me have an understanding.”

Tina shrugs. “Then keep on pulling his pigtails, I guess.”

She returns to her desk, leaving Hank to glare at Connor’s empty desk. No one is ever going to bully Connor away from detective work, especially Reed, and definitely not Hank. _Pulling his pigtails_. Hank sighs.

Connor finally returns to his desk. He moves too fast for Hank to see what direction he came from, and takes his seat without a word. Hank tries to look absorbed in his computer screen, even though he doesn’t have any windows open. There’s a million things he could and, hell, _should_ be doing, but he’s… distracted. Not by anything in particular, not that he can put a finger on. It’s like he feels a pebble stuck in his shoe but every time he tries to shake it out, nothing is there.

A message pops up in the corner of Hank’s screen via the office intranet.

_SENDER: Connor RK800 #313 248 317 - 51_

_SUBJECT: Evidence Room Ghost Cursory Analysis [URGENT]_

He looks across at Connor, who doesn’t look up from his own terminal. “Connor.” The android lifts his head. “You’re sitting right across from me.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Why did you just email me?”

“That message contains preliminary measurements of the evidence locker’s heat signatures and electromagnetic fields. I compiled them into a graph. I know visual aids can be helpful in understanding hard data.”

“The temperatures and electromagnetic fields,” Hank repeats, sitting back in his chair.

“Yes. Self-styled paranormal experts use both in their investigations.”

“So what you’re saying is—” Hank shakes his head. If Connor knew how to fuck with him, he’d assume Connor is fucking with him. But Connor doesn’t fuck with anyone. “When you were gone just now, you were off ghost hunting in the evidence room?”

Connor blinks. “I was searching for—”

“You were ghost hunting.”

“Yes,” Connor concedes. “I was ghost hunting.”

Hank nods a few times, biting his lip. Fuck, it’s hard not to laugh. “And why is this message marked urgent?”

“Because your apparent belief in the existence of pseudoscience and spiritual entities could easily betray you in your duty as a police officer. As your partner it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re of rational mind.”

Okay, Hank has to laugh at that. “You think I’m crazy?”

Connor’s light flashes yellow. He’s probably pulling up a script. ‘What to say when a human with suicidal tendencies jokes about being crazy.’

Hank decides to save him the bandwidth or whatever. “We both know I’m not of rational mind, Connor. Not completely.”

Connor goes from yellow to red, then quickly back to yellow. It must be confusing to see Hank say that with a smile. “There’s a difference between anti-scientific beliefs and mental illness.”

The words _mental illness_ spark an anger in Hank he doesn’t quite understand. He leans forward, toward Connor. “Do you really want to get into a debate about humans and their antiscientific beliefs? Because we’d have to talk about religion—many of these fine officers you see here today are godfearing people, you know. And Captain Fowler?” Hank indicates the boss’s office. Connor turns slightly. “His wife puts crystals in his water. For _healing_. Pays real money for them, too. People are not logical, Connor.”

Connor’s face has gone blank and his LED keeps spinning yellow. “There is no proof that ghosts exist.”

Hank slaps his desk, making Connor jump. That’s a cute little animation some fucker programmed in—he needs to write CyberLife a strongly worded letter. “Then let’s find some.”

“Proof, you mean?”

“Yup!”

“I already conducted—”

“Connor, it’s not even noon.” Hank is back to grinning, but this time it’s… wild. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, but he sure is doing it. “You can’t go ghost hunting in daylight. We need to wait. Come back after hours, when everyone’s gone home.”

Connor flicks back into the red for a while, not saying anything.

“What?” Hank asks. “You don’t sleep, do you?”

“But you do, Lieutenant.”

“Then let’s do it Friday night. I don’t have to come in on Saturday. I’ll sleep in.”

The red light on Connor’s temple makes Hank wonder, fleetingly, if that’s the android equivalent of blushing—or do androids blush for real? Would they blush red or blue, like that goop that’s inside them? Seems like that would be disconcerting, for someone who looks as human as Connor to turn such an inhuman color.

Then again, androids probably don’t blush. Not models like Connor, anyway. What purpose would that serve, other than making crotchety old detectives sweat and squirm?

Hank tries to turn that discomfort around. Deflect it. Make it someone else’s problem. “What’s the issue, Connor? Got a hot date or something?”

“I don’t have any prior engagements, no.”

“So, what then? Are you scared I’m going to prove you wrong?”

Connor’s head tilts ever so slightly to the side. “Lieutenant, is this a professional or a personal invitation?”

“Uh.” Talk about uncomfortable, Jesus. It’s a perfectly valid question, sort of, almost—is it? _What the fuck are you doing?_ asks a voice in the back of Hank’s head. “I’d say professional, but I don’t think this qualifies as time on the clock. So personal, then.”

Connor smiles. He hasn’t quite got the hang of smiling yet, but he tries. “I accept. It sounds fun.”

Hank clears his throat and looks at his computer. “It’s not going to be fun. It’s going to be spooky.”

“As you explained earlier, those two things can sometimes go hand-in-hand.”

“I sure did say that.” Hank stands abruptly, grabbing his mug. “I’m going to go get some more coffee.”

Connor frowns. “You had a cup of coffee within the last half hour. Having another cup so soon—”

“Is going to give me a coronary? Yeah, that’s the idea.” Hank flees to the breakroom, his heart pounding, and he’s pretty sure it’s not the caffeine. Fuck.

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

Connor is like a baby bird. Innocent, gullible, learning about the world.

Hank has never been good with delicate things. The first time he held Cole he froze up, paralyzed by the fear of dropping the kid. He has thick, clumsy fingers and more body mass than he knows what to do with. Having to tiptoe around anything makes him nervous.

Which explains why he’s weird about Connor, probably. Connor has mentioned that Hank is the human he spends the most time around, meaning Connor is learning about humanity through Hank, among its worst representatives. Hank doesn’t want to fuck up Connor’s beautiful blank slate. You only get to form an individual consciousness once. Any damage Hank does to Connor during the process, it’ll stick.

And yet here Hank is, showing up at the department after hours in order to continue playing an elaborate practical joke at Connor’s expense. He’s never been the best at planned, purposeful action, but this seems like a particularly egregious violation of _you should know better_.

He brings a full flask, and donuts. Half a dozen, and he’s in the car before he remembers that Connor doesn’t—can’t, maybe—eat. Well. More donuts for him.

The department isn’t completely deserted after hours, but once you get past booking and holding and reach the bullpen, the activity dies down. It’s nearly eleven and even the custodial staff is clearing out. Hank stops by the breakroom to grab napkins for his dessert-dinner and finds Reed asleep on the sofa, jacket pulled up like a blanket and a case file tablet open on the floor. Hank chuckles: Gavin will come in on Monday bragging about his great weekend hook-up and for once, Hank won’t have to assume he’s full of shit.

Hank returns to his desk to wait for Connor, bringing out his flask to pass the time. He’s not sure he’s ever beaten Connor to a prearranged meeting in their months working together, and he stops by the evidence room to make sure he’s not already in there, waiting on Hank. But no, Connor is late, and Hank is on time.

Connor shows up at Hank’s desk nearly twenty minutes late. “I apologize, Lieutenant.”

“Are you okay? Are you malfunctioning?”

“My diagnostics do not show any errors.”

“So… you just decided to be late?”

“I was on time, but I stood in front of the department for several minutes before I could enter.”

Connor says this matter-of-factly, like he says everything. Hank frowns. “Who was stopping you from coming inside?”

“No one stopped me.”

“Then… why didn’t you come in?”

Connor’s LED flickers yellow. “I’m not sure.” He reaches for his pocket, for his coin, then drops his hand awkwardly, like he changed his mind. “I’ve begun spontaneously developing new processes in deviancy. Some of them don’t have an obvious purpose. I plan on continuing to investigate.”

“Christ,” says Hank, leaning back in his chair. “Android puberty.”

“I would hope you understood the purpose of human puberty, Lieutenant.”

“Maybe, but I still investigated the hell out of it.”

Connor smiles at the joke. He doesn’t laugh, he has yet to figure out laughing, but he’s gotten good at substituting in smiles. It’s just as well, Hank feels like Connor learning to laugh would fuck him up real bad.

Hank closes up his flask and gathers his donuts. “Ready to get this show on the road?”

“I am. I’ll meet you in the evidence locker. I need to get a display from the conference room.”

Connor trots off without explaining himself. Hank is used to that. He takes the stairs to the evidence room and makes himself comfortable—there’s nowhere to sit in this goddamn spaceship of an archive so he ends up leaning against the wall, donuts in his lap, flask in hand. Feeling nostalgic for the days when this room had tables and chairs and boxes full of paper files.

Connor arrives a few minutes later with a small television under his arm. He takes a look at Hank’s floor set up and frowns.

“Would you like me to get you a chair, Lieutenant?”

“I’m fine down here.”

“Are you sure? I would be happy to—”

“Connor,” Hank says, with a gentleness that’s… new. “I’m fine. Have a seat.” Connor does, setting the television in front of them. “What’s this for? Did you want to show the ghosts your favorite flick?”

“The monitor will provide a way for you to view the room’s heat signatures and electromagnetic feedback in real time.”

“Oh, sure. Okay.” That sounds reasonable enough. “How are you going to measure… wait, why are you taking off your jacket? I thought you didn’t get warm?”

Fuck, it’s been a while since Hank saw Connor out of his jacket. You’d think CyberLife would’ve had the decency to make him wear an undershirt. “I will be doing the measurements myself. I have more than enough sensors for it.” Connor starts rolling up his left sleeve.

“Oh.” Hank feels like he’s missing something. “But how are you going to—”

Connor answers the question by—popping open his arm. Well, a panel on his arm. Because he’s a robot, and robots do that. 

Hank looks away instinctively, not sure if he’s freaked out or disgusted or—embarrassed. Is seeing Connor’s wires like seeing him naked? Is it like seeing his guts? Is it supposed to be weird? Because it feels weird.

“I would do this wirelessly under most circumstances,” says Connor lightly, plugging a cord from the TV into his arm. “But all the wireless-capable televisions are larger than practical for our purposes. The smallest one I could find was an older model.”

“Yeah. Sure. No problem.” Realizing it’s going to be like this for the rest of the night, Hank sneaks another look at Connor’s arm. He has to look away again. He’s less subtle about it than he would’ve liked: Connor glances between Hank and the open panel with the wire hanging out. He rolls down his sleeve to cover the panel loosely, and Hank suffers a pang of guilt. “You don’t need to do that.”

“It seems to be making you uncomfortable.”

Hank opens his mouth to try and argue, but Connor is right. It _is_ making him uncomfortable.

“I hope the results will be worth it,” says Connor, with some finality. He leans forward and turns on the television. The screen is split down the middle; one side shows the evidence room in the recognizable bright colors of a heat map, and the other looks more like an EKG. It takes Hank a second to realize the image of the room is from Connor’s perspective. He’s seeing through Connor’s eyes, literally.

“Neat,” he manages. Perfunctory as always.

“You seem very intent on proving your theory, Lieutenant. I want you to have the right tools at your disposal.”

His _theory_. Right, when he lied and claimed this room was haunted, because he thought it would be fun to fuck with Connor a little. And now they’re sitting in the basement at midnight, Connor modded into a ghost catching machine. At what point is Hank going to admit he made it all up and go home? It’s that or he sits here until sunrise and shrugs, _I guess the ghost fish weren’t biting tonight_. Either option makes him feel like an idiot, suggesting that he might be an idiot.

Why did he do this to himself? He never liked pranks as a kid, and this isn’t a good one. He glances sideways at Connor, who is blinking curiously at the screen. His lashes look especially long from this angle.

Ah, right. That’s why he did it.

Idiot.

Hank clears his throat and fumbles in his jacket pocket for his flask.

“So, Lieutenant,” says Connor casually. “How have you been?”

Oh, good. Small talk. Hank’s favorite. “I’ve been fine, Connor. How about you?” Hank takes a swig. “How are you and your… friends getting along?” He hesitates on the word friend because he doesn’t know if that’s who they are, to Connor.

Hank doesn’t often ask about Connor’s place in the gradually stabilizing culture of free androids. It feels like prying, and he knows there are conversations happening he’ll never understand. He doesn’t need to insert himself in every part of Connor’s new life. They’re partners first, friends second, and Connor is perfectly professional—it’s how he was made. There are boundaries Hank stares at from afar but doesn’t dare cross.

“I’m well. My friends are well, too.” Connor gives him a funny little glance. “I could report you for that, you know.”

“For…” Connor indicates Hank’s flask and Hank snorts. “You’re threatening me? Is that so, Connor?”

“Yes, it’s very unprofessional and could impede our important investigative work here.”

“Okay,” says Hank, pulling a face. “Nice one. When did they give you a sense of humor?”

“I’ve always had a sense of humor.”

“No you haven’t.”

“Hm. Then maybe I developed one in order to endure being around you.”

Hank guffaws. Connor is _teasing_ him. He laughs because he’s surprised, and because—it’s a decent joke, actually.

Connor fiddles with the cuff of his shirt. “When do you think we’ll see some activity?”

Hank knocks back another swig of whiskey, watching the movement of Connor’s fingers, long and slender and white. “Dunno. Could take all night.”

“Will you sleep?”

“Nah,” Hank lies.

 

 

###

 

 

Hank doses off within half an hour of swearing to Connor that he’s golden, good for the whole night. He’s not young anymore, it seems; it’s a struggle to make it past midnight, and all nighters are nigh impossible. Another couple shots of whiskey and he’s out.

When he stirs, he has no concept of how much time has passed since he fell asleep. He snorts awake and the overhead lights in the evidence archive have gone dark, leaving only strips of LED on the access console and the floor to remind him where he is. His ear aches, and he lifts his head—off Connor’s shoulder. He fell asleep on Connor’s shoulder.

Hank sits up suddenly, shaking out some stiffness. He looks at Connor, heart pounding, and… doesn’t understand what he sees.

Connor’s LED is off, his eyes fixed vacantly in front of him. The screen showing his perspective has gone blank, and his—chest isn’t rising and falling. That’s not strictly concerning, since Hank doesn’t think Connor _needs_ air, but he’s not sure he’s ever noticed Connor’s stimulated breathing stop before.

Hank reaches over and nudges Connor’s arm. Nothing.

He snaps his fingers in front of Connor’s eyes. Nothing. “Did you run out of batteries?” He tries shaking Connor’s shoulder, hard. “Connor. Hey. Wake up.”

Connor doesn’t wake up.

Connor isn’t there.

The panic is instant. “Hey! Connor!” He climbs over Connor’s legs, slapping his face gently, almost tripping on the cable running from Connor’s arm to the television. “Let’s get this shit out of you—” Hank pulls hard on the cord and it pops out of whatever port in Connor’s arm. “Connor, hey, wake up. Come on.”

Nothing is happening. Hank is shaking a lifeless plastic husk—an unmoving face and dark eyes and limp limbs.

Something invisible and cruel grips Hank’s heart. He is cold, suddenly, falling back in time. His feet slip under him. The floor of the archive is an icy road. His hands are on Connor’s face, cupping his cheeks, and tears well in his eyes. “Connor, please.”

Hank reaches for Connor’s torso, intending to pull him close. To hold him, hoping some of the life will crawl out of his chest and into Connor’s.

But before he can, Connor’s mouth falls open. Not in a human, expressive way, but like the hinge has come loose.

Connor, or the thing that is currently inhabiting Connor, speaks. His lips don’t move, and his voice has gone tinny and mechanical, the sound hissing from his open maw like a broken speaker. He only says one word, his eyes dark voids of machine-like unfeeling.

“ _Hank._ ”

A terrified yell bursts from Hank as he flies backward, away from the husk of Connor. His face is wet with tears. He thinks, in a last-ditch plea, _just kill me_. It’s what he wanted, isn’t it? Whatever this thing is, it should just let him die.

As Hank sits slumped against the archive console, head in his hands, shaking down to his very bones, Connor’s open mouth hisses out another single word—

“Boo.”

Hank chokes on spit and tears. He watches Connor snap back to life—his eyes lighting up, the muscles of his face flinching in an ultra-realistic imitation of human expression. His mouth closes, as much as it ever seems to. And he… smiles.

Hank feels his heartbeat steadying. Understanding floods his brain, making it hard to breathe, to see straight. Connor is okay—Connor tricked him. Connor is smiling at him, closing the panel on his arm, waiting to be praised for his joke.

His joke. It was a joke.

Hank scrambles to his feet, using the console to steady himself. The lights come back on the second he moves more than a couple feet. “Fuck. Fuck.”

Connor’s smile shrinks. “Are you okay, Hank?”

“No, I’m not fucking _okay_ , you fucking— _fuck_.” He wants nothing more than to stop crying but that’s not in the cards. He feels like someone pried open the worst of his old wounds and shoved their hand inside it.

Connor gets up, reaching for him, but Hank pulls away. He doesn’t want to be touched right now. “I’m sorry—I thought being frightened was supposed to be pleasurable—”

“It wasn’t! It wasn’t _pleasurable_.” Hank shoves his face into his sleeve, roughly wiping the tears away.

“I’m sorry, Hank,” says Connor, and fuck if he doesn’t sound genuine about it. Too bad Hank is furious, too bad his stomach feels like it’s on fire.

“I’m fucking sorry, too. I’m sorry I—” Ever met you? Let this stupid fancy go so far? “There’s no ghost in the evidence room, Connor! It’s bullshit! Ghosts are bullshit.”

Connor frowns. “I know that. And I knew that you knew that.”

Hank is surprised out of his fury, for a moment. “You…”

“I’m programmed to be able to detect when humans tell the truth. I’m statistically more accurate than a standard lie detector,” says Connor, sheepish.

“So you knew I was fucking with you?” Connor nods. “And… you still agreed to this nonsense?” Hank asks, indicating the monitor and wires. Connor nods. “That doesn’t sound especially rational to me.”

“It was rational. I wanted to spend time with you outside of work.”

There’s more to unpack in that statement than Hank can bear, in the moment. He takes a few deep breaths. Reaches for his flask and downs the last third of it in one go.

“Your vitals are returning to normal,” says Connor, in that bright voice he does when he’s trying to be helpful. Hank can’t look at him.

“Yeah. Great.”

“I upset you.”

“No shit.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it would… I’m very sorry, Hank.”

“Whatever,” Hank exhales.

They stand quietly while Hank comes back to himself. He probably needs to go back to the shrink. He wishes that didn’t mean admitting to the whiskey and the gun.

“ _Help._ ”

“Help with what, Connor?” Hank asks, irritated.

He looks up and Connor’s brow is furrowed. “I didn’t say anything.”

They stare at each other. This time, Hank can see that Connor’s mouth isn’t moving when the voice speaks.

“ _Help_.”

“Connor,” Hank growls. “Not funny.”

“It’s not me, Lieutenant. I promise you.” He looks at the wall where the evidence bays are stored. “It’s coming from there.”

“ _Help me!_ ”

Glaring, because he’s still not entire convinced this isn’t Connor’s doing, Hank marches over to the console. Connor skitters after him, peeking over his shoulder. “Try the third one back,” Connor offers. “It’s close.”

Hank punches in his credentials and calls up the third bay. With the lights on and the high-tech bullshit archival system buzzing, the evidence room feels the farthest thing from spooky, but there’s still a little flutter in Hank’s chest. But it could be Connor’s shoulder pressing into his back, or Connor’s fingers gripping his arm. He doesn’t know if androids can be—scared. They probably can’t, and not by disembodied voices. Somehow Connor does a good show of it anyway.

The bay arrives at the front of the archive and the voice fills the room.

“ _Help.”_

Connor leaves Hank at the console, Hank’s eyes glued to the spot he vacates. Hanging from one of the evidence racks is an android—what’s left of an android It doesn’t appear to be talking, because it doesn’t have a jaw. Its face and body are mangled, chewed up, and its skin is gone.

Connor approaches the android with no trace of fear, not that Hank can see. His light is a normal blue. He reaches into—into the hole in its neck.

“ _Help mmeeuhh.”_ The voice dies. Connor retracts his hand.

“There must have been power to its voicebox still, somehow,” he explains, stepping back from the rack and the body.

“Why does… it’s asking for help?”

“Repeating its last known vocal data, most likely.” Connor clears his throat. “You can put the bay back now. I disabled the voicebox entirely. Someone should’ve done it before the body was inventoried.”

“Yeah, I guess they mysteriously forgot,” Hank sighs, punching the controls to send the bay back into the depths of the archive. He’s fighting off the chill running down his spine. “Like the voicebox mysteriously got power just now when we’ve been down here all night.”

“That is… curious,” says Connor, doing the button on his left sleeve. He retrieves his neatly folded jacket from the floor and slips it on. “Do you want to go back upstairs, Lieutenant?” Connor asks, in a tone of voice that suggests he’s in favor.

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

They retire to their desks, Connor perching on the corner of Hank’s like he sometimes does, even though he’s got a perfectly good chair a few feet away.

Halfway through a donut, Hank muses, “It’s strange we’re still keeping androids down there like… like they’re the evidence and not the victims, you know? We’d give humans a proper burial.” He glances at Connor, waiting for some kind of reaction. He doesn’t want to offend, projecting human stuff onto androids.

“That’s a good point. Androids don’t have death rites, but maybe we should.” Connor smiles, a little sad. He smiles enough now that the gesture can take on a more specific inflection. “Until recently, decommissioned androids were recycled or left to junkyards.”

Hank chews slowly. “Mass graves.” An odd thing to be saying with a mouthful of donut.

“I’ll bring it up to Markus and see what he thinks.” Right. Connor is a big shot in android politics.That’s a part of his life—the part without Hank.

Hank fishes in his pocket for his flask and finds it, sadly, empty. Connor hands him a cold bottle of water instead, which, when did he even sneak to the break room to get that? But Hank takes it anyway and washes down his donut.

Now it’s three o’clock in the morning and he’s sobering up at his desk while his android partner takes better care of him than he deserves.

Hank sighs. It’s not like there’s going to be a better moment to have this conversation. Hank feels—raw. Maybe that’ll make it easier to say what he has to say.

“I really am sorry about scaring you before,” Connor says, leaning forward to grab Hank’s wandering attention. “I… I’m still… I didn’t mean for it to affect you that way.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” Hank himself couldn’t have guessed it would be that bad. He clears his throat. “Why do you want to spend time with me outside of work, Connor?”

Connor frowns like the question doesn’t quite make sense to him, but he doesn’t have trouble answering it. “I enjoy spending time with you and I’d like to do more of it.”

“Doing what? What do we have in common?”

“We both like dogs, and human cultural appreciation.”

“Yeah, well, ‘human cultural appreciation’ is a big category.”

“Not for an android,” Connor says, and smiles. Hank heaves another sigh and turns away, arms across his chest. “Do you enjoy spending time with me, Lieutenant?”

Fucking-a. “Nope.”

“You’re lying.”

Busted, of course. “Yep.”

“You want to be my friend.” The delight in Connor’s voice is pure, almost childish. Hank needs to crush it.

“I don’t, actually.” Hank swivels back to face Connor. “I don’t want to be your friend.”

“Oh.” Connor has stopped smiling. His light goes yellow.  _Good_ , Hank thinks. _That’s good. That’s what I wanted._ “Why wouldn’t you want to be my friend if you like spending time with me?”

“Because it would suck for me, Connor. It would be hard.”

“Why?”

“Because of—human reasons, okay?”

“Because you like me too much?”

Hank’s stomach drops. He can see nothing but polite curiosity in Connor’s perfectly molded face. He cuts Hank to the quick with a few words and he doesn’t even seem bothered about it.

Hank turns his chair away. He can’t look at that face anymore. “We’re done talking about this.” If they go any further, they can’t go back. They have to see each other everyday at these very desks, to work cases together, to put their lives on the line. It doesn’t need to be anymore complicated than it already is. It doesn’t.

“I think I might like you too much, Hank.”

Hank puts his head in his hands. What’s that thing baby animals do? Imprinting? “You don’t, Connor. And you’re going to want to drop it.”

“When I arrived at the department tonight, I couldn’t come inside. I kept thinking about how this was the first time you had ever asked me to spend time with you in a personal capacity, and…” It’s so hard for Hank not to look at him. To see what his face is doing. “I was excited and nervous. And I was afraid.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Connor,” says Hank. Half to persuade Connor, and half to persuade himself, because he knows just the feeling Connor described.

“I don’t understand what the problem is,” Connor says earnestly.

“The problem?” Hank sets his water aside and wheels around in his chair. “Okay, let me tell you the problem.” Connor sits back, blinking. “You—are a highly advanced sentient man-machine with a designer body and arms full of ports and wires, a political player, a young, superior—creature. I—am an old detective with a drinking problem, and, let’s face it, a fucked-up brain and a backlog of baggage, and I’m the first human you’ve had an actual relationship with. Of course you like me _too much_. You’ve never liked anyone before.”

Connor doesn’t answer, so Hank stands. He steps toward Connor, whose LED is red, gaining steam, still talking. “On top of that? We’re coworkers. Partners, even. We work together everyday. And the day I break your heart because I’m a piece of shit and you’ve never felt love before, that day we’re still going to have to go and investigate some grisly, heartless homicide and rub elbows with the worst of humankind, and probably androidkind too, hell.” Hank braces himself against the desk where Connor sits, caging him between his arms. “That day, Connor? That’s going to be the worst day of your shiny new life.” Hank feels himself grin like maniac. “But it won’t be the worst day of mine. Not even close. So it’s not really _a_ problem so much as a dozen problems, a real _assortment_ of problems, just some hand-picked gourmet problems. Enough problems that there’s no way you should be looking at me and thinking that’s a _rational_ thing to want.”

There’s not much space between him and Connor before, and everything he just said hangs in that small margin while Hank catches his breath. Connor’s expression is blank.

“The results of tonight’s investigation,” says Connor softly, light flicking from yellow to blue, “suggest that not every phenomenon has a completely rational explanation.”

Hank presses his tongue against the inside of his mouth. This close he can see the three moles running in a line down Connor’s right cheek. Fuck.

“Do you want to kiss me, Lieutenant?”

“I do.”

“You can.”

Hank does. Just—lightly, with his mouth closed, and Connor doesn’t kiss back, maybe because he doesn’t know how. It’s chaste. His lips are cold. Not frigid, he still runs hot, but colder than Hank. And somehow still pleasant to the touch, with a silky finish you don’t find on human lips.

Hank pulls away. _You kissed him_. He watches a smile spread over Connor’s face. _You kissed Connor at your desk in the middle of the night_. There are security cameras—everywhere. He can almost hear himself telling Fowler to add it to the disciplinary pile.

“That was pleasant,” says Connor, interested. “Was it pleasant for you?”

“You don’t know how to kiss.”

Connor spins red for a second. “No, but I can learn.”

Hank laughs and steps back from the desk, running a hand down his face. “I bet you can. What can’t you learn?”

Hank and Connor turn in tandem when a groggy voice says, “What the fuck are you two doing here?” Gavin Reed stands in the bullpen, half asleep, jacket under one arm and tablet under the other. It’s obvious he didn’t see anything questionable, otherwise he’d be… you know. Being Gavin about it.

Hank answers his question simply and honestly. “We’re hunting ghosts.”

Gavin looks at him like he just said something in Latin. “You’re…”

“It’s getting pretty late, though,” Hank declares, making eye contact with Connor. “We’re probably going to head out soon.”

Connor nods. “Yes. We should really be going.”

Gavin says, “Did you say you were… hunting ghosts?”

“You want a donut, Reed?” Hank asks, waving the box. “There’s four in here. I ate all the chocolate frosted. Still some glazed, though.” Hank leads the way out of the bullpen, Connor trailing him. They leave Gavin dumbfounded.

Outside the department, there’s a moment where they have to decide what happens next. Neither of them says as much, but they stop at the point where they’d normally part ways and the question hangs in the air.

“It’s extremely late, Lieutenant,” says Connor. So responsible. It’s dumb.

“Yeah, but…” Hank doesn’t finish the sentence. _Yeah, but come over and let me hold you while I fall asleep so I can wake up to your voice_ —too specific, and a little weird. Not that Connor would know what’s weird under these circumstances.

“You should rest,” Connor insists. “Go home and go to sleep.”

“Yeah,” says Hank, unable to cloak his disappointment.

“Do you want to spend time with me later today?” Connor asks, poking his face toward Hank’s. “In a personal capacity?”

Ah, fuck, Connor has soft eyes. And the way they get softer when he asks for something sweetly, is… it has to be a deviancy thing, because no one in their right mind would give an android that much persuasive power. “I mean, I guess I would.” Hank sighs. “You want to hang out… as friends?”

Connor’s pout intensifies dangerously. “Oh, no. I’m… I’m asking you out.” He adds with concern, “Did I say that right?”

“You did.” Hank swallows a startled laugh. He doesn’t know how else to respond, emotionally. Laughter seems like the only thing. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and turns to walk toward his car.

“Wait, are you saying yes?”

“Yes, Connor,” Hank says, walking backwards to get a look at the big-eyed expression on Connor’s face. “I’m saying yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Connor fidgets hard, his hands curling into fists. Hank turns his back and struggles not to jog to his car. Apparently Connor has picked up talking to himself, among other things, because Hank could swear he hears Connor mutter as he’s walking away: “Mission accomplished.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can thank shad for commissioning this one. thanks, shad!


End file.
